Coats are forever
by bauble123
Summary: The Marquis de Carabas and Sherlock Holmes switch coats. Big problem. One-shot.


**So, this is a one-shot Sherlock/Neverwhere crossover one shot, inspired by a story I read on here called "how sherlock got his coat back". Sherlock and the Marquis switch coats. Big problem.**

Coats are forever

There was a coat spread-eagled on the back of the chair. It was a black frock coat, suited to a dandy, with cuffs edged with grubby lace and ebony buttons and deep, deep pockets. The Marquis de Carabas sat down with a bump, draping himself elegantly over the moth-eaten velvet upholstery. Richard sat opposite him, looking on incredulously.

"You look ridiculous like that." he said.

"Yes?"

"Yes, especially with your leg over the arm rest."

"I think it's rather debonair."

"Whatever. You look like a pillock."

"Be that as it may, I am nonetheless far more distinguished than you, _Warrior_." the Marquis replied, looking with distaste at Richard's soot-covered attire. Sensing an impending argument, Door moved over to the chair and picked up the edge of the Marquis' coat. The Marquis shot out a hand and snatched the black velveteen fabric away.

"Hey!" Door pulled at the coat. "Temple and arch, Marquis, what the hell is it with you and coats?"

"Nothing. I'm just very attached to this particular article."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was a coat dumped in a pile on the floor. It was a grey Belstaff trench coat, with the collar turned up against an invisible wind. Next to it lay a stricken navy blue scarf, knotted half way down. Sherlock was lying on the chaise in his shirt-sleeves, a line of nicotine patches stuck to his arm. The door slammed and John Watson entered.

"Bored?" he asked, looking to his friend.

"No, thinking."

"Huh." John leaned down and lifted up the coat that was crumpled on the floor.

"Don't touch that."

"What's wrong with it? I'm just hanging it up." Ignoring Sherlock's comment, John walked over to the door and hung the coat up next to his own.

"Fine. But don't touch it again."

"Why not? What is it with you and bloody coats, Sherlock? Not getting sentimental on them, are you?"

"God forbid."

"I thought as much."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Richard! Have you taken my coat?!" the Marquis roared, his deep voice carrying across the rooms. Richard came in, his shirt liberally splashed with water. Momentarily distracted, the Marquis stared quizzically at the younger man.

"What in the underside have you been doing?"

"Washing my jacket – or trying to. I got it horribly defiled when I fell in the sewer." A brief smile passed across the Marquis' dark features.

"You made a dreadful mess of it, clearly."

"Whatever."

"So, did you take my coat?"

"No. Why would I have done?"

"I don't know. It's missing – and I've got this instead." At arm's length, he held out a grey trench coat, its collar turned up.

"Whose is that?" asked Richard, running his fingers down the rough fabric.

"I don't know."

"Weird. Nice coat, though – I mean, it's not exactly your style, but it's nice – looks London above-ish to me." The Marquis inspected the garment, frowning a little.

"It does. I've seen it somewhere before…"

"Well, you had your coat yesterday morning, when I last saw you. What did you do in the evening? When you disappeared?"

"Ah. That may be the key."

"What did you do?"

"I can't say."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"John! What the hell have you done with my bloody coat?!" Sherlock was standing in the room, dressed ready to go but missing the vital part. Mrs Hudson came running up the stairs, almost colliding with John as he scudded across the floor, having pelted in from his bedroom.

"Oh, careful dear." she said, brushing herself off.

"Sorry Mrs H."

"That's all right. Now what's all this shouting about, Sherlock?"

"John moved my coat!"

"No I didn't Sherlock."

"Then who took it? You haven't," he shuddered. "Washed it, have you, Mrs Hudson?"

"No, dear, I know how you are about these things. It _is_ filthy though."

"What's this Sherlock?" asked John, picking up a bundle of rags from the floor. He shook it out, looking at the jet black lace-edged Victorian frock coat. "It looks Edwardian or something."

"Victorian, John. Get the facts right."

"Whose is it?"

"I don't know – give me a minute." He threw himself onto the chaise. "Mrs Hudson!" he yelled, after a moment.

"What, dear?"

"Pass me the nicotine patches." She did it dutifully.

"Couldn't John have done that, dear?"

"I suppose. Now get out, both of you."

"He's in one of those moods." John said, as he and Mrs Hudson walked down the stairs. "Let's go and watch some telly."

A minute later, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He said one word. "Damn."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had been a brief meeting: the two men, of like minds, each seeking to get rid of the same pair of criminals. Plans had been laid, and theories sketched out.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock walked into the train station, and approached the man sat on the rug. The man put down his saxophone.

"Spare a copper, guvnor?" the man asked, his cockney accent shining through.

"Quit the accent, Lear." Sherlock was unimpressed.

"Fine. Who are you and what do you want?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I need the Marquis de Carabas."

"The Marquis?"

"You owe him a favour, I believe."

"Yeah."

"And I am sure you can redeem it. I have something very important to him."

"Leverage, you mean?"

"If you like."

"Okay. Come on then." Lear stood up and motioned Sherlock to follow him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When they arrived, the Marquis was waiting at the station.

"Mind the gap." He called, as the two men stepped off the train.

"Don't worry. I remember." Sherlock skipped over the gap and walked over, putting out a hand.

"Marquis." He said, as the other man shook it gravely.

"Mr Holmes."

Then, in unison, they announced.

"I think I have something of yours."


End file.
